THE LITERARY LADY

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise,

Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,

And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.

There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.
A moral essay now is all her care,

A satire next, and then a bill of fare.

A scene she now projects, and now a dish;

Here Act the First, and here Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,

That soberly casts up a bill for coals;

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,

And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan

OLD GRIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man

We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,
All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray -
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;

The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:

His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes

He pass'd securely o’er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest —
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse —
Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,

Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune's chances,

But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

Albert Gorton Greene

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES1

O reverend sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a-lying there
Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough
To mourn your wife's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction

Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;

That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend

You'll never be forgot

By your faithful and affectionate friend,

PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.

Frances Miriam Whitcher

1 From "The Widow Bedott Papers."

DORA VERSUS ROSE

"The case is proceeding."

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least, on a practical plan·
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.

But no case that I ever yet met is

Like mine: I am equally fond

Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,

And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers ·

Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints.

In short, to distinguish is folly;

'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Folly, Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet

To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it

The legend, "To Rose."

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all overscrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;

Or I find myself placidly adding

To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding
Ineffable nose

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?

For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);

For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election, -
To declare that on either one's side
a grain, more affection,
I cannot decide.

I've a scruple,

And, as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis, —
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive

By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.

(Afterthought)

But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Not wholly so charming as Dora,

Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,
As the claims of the others are equal,-
And flight in the main is the best,
That I might . . . But no matter, the sequel
Is easily guessed.

Austin Dobson

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER LAP-DOG DEAD

Home they brought her lap-dog dead,

Just run over by a fly;

Jeames to Buttons, winking, said,
"Won't there be a row, O my!"

Then they call'd the flyman low,

Said his baseness could be proved;
How she to the Beak should go -

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Said her maid (and risked her place),
"In the 'ouse it should have kept;